


Happy Campers

by benrumo



Series: Inquisitor Cesare Lavellan Desperately Tries Not to Ruin Everything [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-04 02:37:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2906090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benrumo/pseuds/benrumo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Perhaps one of the most difficult tasks the Inquisitor faces is trying to keep nine people as bizarrely disparate as his companions happy. Some he's heavily tempted to let stew in their own disapproval from time to time, but others he goes out of his way to keep in good spirits.</p><p>(Works in series are not sequential, just same-universe.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Campers

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for Blackwall's companion quests.

“Mountains. Cold. I know, let’s bring Dorian!” Dorian sneers, wrapping his arms around himself. Rather pointlessly, in your opinion, given that one of his arms is practically bare.

“You had the option of staying back at the keep, darling,” Vivienne reminds him, though you sense she’s no more fond of the cold than he is.

You can’t say you’re overly fond of it yourself. Your nomadic childhood left you with a better resistance to the elements than most of your party, but you doubt there are many in Thedas who can say they’re fond of camping in the Frostbacks.

Like Dorian, however, you can’t help but to wonder what you could have possibly been thinking when you brought two noble-born shemlen along with you to this particular locale.

“Bull?” you say, ignoring the soft-footed nobles in favor of someone who might actually have reason to complain. “Are you quite alright?”

The Iron Bull is, as usual, bare from the waist up. Qunari have think skins and a certain resistance to both pain and the elements, you’ve been told, but you’re not sure any skin could be thick enough to bear this kind of abuse.

“Never better,” he says, sounding enthusiastic enough. “How many of us do you think it would take to bring down that dragon we saw earlier?”

“Every person at our disposal and then some,” you say, half-serious. “Would you like… I’m sure we have a blanket or something you could pull around yourself.”

“Here I am with icicles growing on my mustache and you offer that hulking brute a blanket?” Dorian complains. “I’m starting to think you don’t like me anymore.”

“I would have offered you one if I thought you’d dare shroud your beauty for the sake of simple comforts,” you shoot back.

“Oh, you don’t need to worry about me, boss,” he says. “I’m made of tougher stuff than pretty boy back there.”

You place a hand on his arm and, to your utter lack of surprise, find it cold as a corpse.

“No one is questioning that,” you say with a grin. “I’d just rather you make it to camp with all your fingers and toes.”

“There’s no shame in asking for a little comfort in this weather,” Varric chimes in, his own arms crossed tight over his broad chest, no doubt trying (and failing) to keep the wind from snaking through the taunt buttons on his normally open tunic. “We’re all going to have to check our fingers and toes for frostbite once we make camp. Couldn’t the red Templars have picked somewhere less awful to perform their red lyrium experimentation?”

“Yeah, so, how much longer do you think that’s going to be anyway?” Sara asks. “I mean, I could probably stick it out a little longer, yeah? But I’m thinking fussy butts over there would rather have a nice, sparkly fire going well before the sun goes down. ‘Sides, I’m getting hungry.”

You hold up your hands in surrender.

“The people have spoken. Finding a place to set up camp is officially our highest priority,” you give in. “Sera, would you please scout ahead for a place to set up camp? Cassandra, could you double back and let the main party know that we’re stopping for the night?”

Fortunately, there’s a sizeable clearing only about a half mile from where you are. Vivienne sends up a signal flare the moment you arrive and soon there’s a small squadron of Inquisition soldiers ready to help you set up camp. The entourage of soldiers Cullen sent off with you this time isn’t overly large, maybe two score of proper soldiers, half a dozen supply wagons and the varied non-combatants needed to keep everything running smoothly. They fan out, using your camp as a point of origin for several smaller camps. You tried fighting this formation with the commanding officer the first time you were sent out with a proper guard and not just your close allies. It had not gone well. You were eventually forced to give up and take the fight to the commander himself. That went even worse. You’re fairly certain Cullen awarded the officer a medal for, as Cullen put it, “deftly handling your nonsense.”

You’re still uncomfortable being treated as if your life is any more important than theirs. You hate that from a practical standpoint it actually is. You take some small comfort in the knowledge that you have the means to repay them for their sacrifice. You treat your men well. You do all that you can to minimize casualties. You remind yourself that in the end, Creators willing, you will repay all of Thedas a thousand times over by ensuring that there _is_ still a Thedas for their children and their children’s children.

For all his earlier protests, Iron Bull seems no more likely to leave the fire’s side than Dorian when the work is finally done. You found a large blanket while unpacking the supplies earlier and stashed it away when no one was looking. Now that things have quieted down, you figure it’s as fine a time as any to pull it back out. You wrap it around Bull’s shoulders before he has a chance to refuse your help again. He puts up a token protest before pulling the oversized quilt tighter around him with a heartfelt “Thanks, boss.”

“You know,” he says once you’re settled down yourself. “The Qun has a role that would have fit you perfectly.”

“Really?” you say, more than a bit surprised. “They’d manage to find a place for a rebellious southern mage with ancient elven magic quite literally in the palm of his hand?”

“Well, maybe it’s not a perfect fit,” he admits. “But we can’t get enough people like you back home. You want a guy who can single-handedly lop the head off a wyvern? We’ve got you covered a hundred times over. You can’t throw a stone back in Seheron without hitting at least three battle-hardened warriors. You want a meddlesome brat who’s going to fuss over whether or not everyone’s got enough socks for a proper march? That’s harder to find.”

“And for a moment I thought you were trying to flatter me,” you sigh.

“Wait, wait! I haven’t even gotten to the best part yet,” he continues. “See, under the Qun, people like you are called lionesses. They’re these really big creatures, kind of like the little cats you find on farms and in alleyways but way, way bigger. The males of the species are magnificent to behold. Huge manes of golden hair ring their faces. Claws like you wouldn’t believe. But the funny thing about lions is that for all the might the males of the species have, it’s the females who keep everyone alive. They do the hunting. They raise the cubs and keep everyone clean with their incessant, licking tongues. Meanwhile, all the males do is sit around all day arguing about how tough they are.”

“Now I know you’re making fun of me,” you grouse, reminding yourself as you do that he doesn’t mean it the way you instinctively want to take it. “You sound like my Keeper.”

“Oh? What was her word for it?” Bull laughs.

“The wagging tongues of the Orlesian courts would call him a nursing maid,” Vivienne muses, much to your despair at a second clearly feminine disparage on your character.

“In Tevinter, you’d be a knotting viper. I admit that while I’ve never seen you hug anyone to death, I imagine it would be quite the sight,” Dorian teases, destroying any goodwill he might have earned by not choosing a feminine comparison.

“These all seem like fair substitutes for mother hen,” Cassandra says, and damn it all, is there not one among them who has your back?

“I thought mother hen was a bit too on the nose,” Varric chimes in. “Can’t say I thought of anything more fitting myself, though. I’m somewhat inclined towards knotting viper now that I’ve heard it, but vipers are just so…”

“Ruddy evil,” Sera finishes, sticking her tongue out.

“What’s wrong with vipers? They’re noble creatures. Part of my house’s sigil, even,” Dorian complains.

Interesting, you think, that the comparison he chooses figuratively connects the two of you. You wonder if that was intentional on his part. From the fervency of his defense, either he missed it completely or believes the rest of you did.

“That just proves her point, doesn’t it?” Blackwall needles, though for tonight at least it’s good-naturedly.

“You’re all missing the obvious!” Bull complains. “What’s going to coddle you to death and rain fire down upon your enemies?”

He waits futilely for a response.

“A dragon!” he says as if the comparison is the most obvious thing in the world.

You suddenly find yourself feeling much more flattered.

“Aye,” Blackwall says after considering it for a second. “I could see that.”

“Well, I couldn’t,” Sera frowns. “Corfiverous has a pet dragon. Plus, Chezzy’s not all that big.”

“But he is fairly indestructible,” Varric argues.

“And just as uniquely marked,” Solas joins in.

“Dragons don’t go looking for a fight,” Cassandra comments.

“But they pack one hell of a punch when angered,” Bull adds on.

“And dragons are intensely magical,” Dorian says seeming far more pleased with this comparison than his own. Again you can’t help but to note that Tevinter has always had dragon heraldry. He surely notes this connection if by some miracle he missed the previous one.

“It is a sound comparison,” Cassandra say approvingly. “Much better than mother hen.”

“I’d much rather be a dragon than someone’s dinner,” you agree.

“You say that as if people never eat dragon,” Iron Bull says with a wicked grin.

“You’d _eat_ dragon?” Dorian says, sounding not just disturbed but downright scandalized by the idea. You doubt Bull would have gotten a stronger reaction if he’d suggested eating darkspawn.

“If I ever get the opportunity to kill one, you bet I’d be dining on that beauty for weeks. I’d get me one of those fancy city cooks to do up the sweet meats and the organs right. I’d make a broth of the better meats in the biggest pot I could find. Shred up the meat so you get a little in every bite. Maybe some spices to put that spark back into it. The rest I’d cure. I’d eat dragon for every meal until there was nothing left of the beast.”

“That is by far the most barbaric thing I have ever heard you say,” Dorian says, disgusted. “That is the most barbaric thing I have ever heard any Qunari say, and I had the misfortune of attending the trial and subsequent execution of one of your higher ups a few years back.”

“Must not have been that high up if they managed to get themselves captured by Vints,” Bull scoffs.

“I’ve eaten dragon,” Cassandra interrupts before their petty bickering can continue. “It was long ago, when I was still just a child. I recall it having a very distinct flavor.”

“Thank you for reaffirming my belief that all southerners are barbarians,” Dorian despairs.

“Really?” Bull says, completely ignoring Dorian. “I heard it tasted like chicken.”

“No chicken I’ve tasted.”

“That’d be some party,” Varric muses. “Wonder what brew would go best with dragon stew?”

“Oh, I’ve got just the thing,” Bull assures him. “Hard liquor after a hard battle. Qunari specialty. Burns until the whole of you is on fire.”

“I’m sure our ambassador could find someone with a more refined pallet to provide some suitable spirits,” Vivienne says and quite seriously to your surprise. You wouldn’t have taken her for the type to join in on a completely hypothetical conversation on dragon-slaying. She has never struck you as that fanciful.

You briefly wonder if this means that she considers dragon slaying to be a distinct possibility rather than an abstract fantasy. You are immediately disturbed.

“Who says you’re tagging along?” Bull pouts, unhappy to have her logic and worse, _propriety_ working its way into his dreams.

“Darling, you couldn’t afford to leave me behind,” she smiles.

Bull has no room to disagree, though it clearly pains him. Vivienne may not be able to single-handedly lop the head off a wyvern, but her barriers are nearly indestructible. Even the Iron Bull can only take so many hits before he has to back down.

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Dorian says, blissfully free of Bull’s conflict. “Our dear Inquisitor has come far in his training. You might find yourself becoming obsolete if you don’t watch out, Vivienne dear.”

You certainly can’t be the only one of your party to notice the touch of pride in Dorian’s voice. From the way Sera sniggers, you’re certain you’re not.

“I’ll tell you what we won’t need when fighting a dragon,” Sera says, wrinkling her nose. “Any of your creepy ‘Vinter dead people tricks. Can’t scare a dragon, can you? Even with a spirit-y corpse.”

“My magic is for more than scaring the mentally feeble, Sera,” Dorian informs her irritably.

“Hey, just ‘cause I don’t go ’round with a big, fat head full of stuff nobody needs doesn’t make me mentally feeble!”

“Don’t be mean, Dorian,” you chastise him.

“How am I in the wrong? She started it!” he complains.

“This childish bickering is pointless,” Solas interrupts. “If we were truly to take on a creature as old and as powerful as a dragon, all of our talents would certainly be needed.”

“Truest word I’ve heard all evening,” Blackwall scoffs.

“Even me?” Cole says from some forgotten shadowy corner, scaring everyone in earshot right out of their seats.

“Even you, kid,” Varric assures him as he steers him over to a proper, clearly visible seat by the fire.

“I don’t understand. I thought we were killing Corypheus, not a dragon,” Cole says.

“Yeah, but Mister Big Bad’s got his own pet dragon, remember? Might be nice to get some practice in beforehand,” Sera explains.

“An archdemon is not as easy to defeat as a dragon,” Blackwall grumbles.

“But the beast Corypheus commands is no true archdemon,” you remind him.

“Though there is no telling whether that will make it easier or harder to defeat,” Cassandra adds.

“Practice couldn’t hurt,” Bull insists stubbornly. You’re certain it’s more in defense of his dream than out of any conscious effort to better your chances against Corypheus.

“Maker’s breath. What has the world come to when we start thinking of taking down a dragon as _practice_?” Varric laughs.

“Well, I’d sooner fight a dragon than an army of Templars,” Dorian says. “Especially if the Templars in question are your southern Templars. Their lyrium abilities are disturbing enough without the added unnaturalness of red lyrium.”

“And this from a Tevinter magister who raises the dead,” Blackwall snorts.

“You should consider taking that dead fennec off your face before you try to speak. It’s hard to hear over the fur and the stench of you,” Dorian says, though with absolutely no bite to back the words up.

Back when the Inquisition was first beginning to pick up steam, those might have been fighting words. Now you couldn’t even being to guess how many times Blackwall’s made some nearly identical comment and received a nearly identical response. If you didn’t know any better, you’d almost swear they were flirting.

“Blackwall, dear, Dorian could never be a magister,” Vivienne says, just as matter-of-fact as she always is. “He’s far too poorly dressed.”

“ _What_?”

Blood will flow before the night is over. Or at least an ample number of health potions.

“I’ve entertained my fair share of magisters and I can assure you that I’ve never seen one so…” she slips her eyes up and down Dorian’s outraged form. “Plain.”

You laugh so hard Dorian can’t manage to get a retort out over the noise you’re making. He can barely manage to keep a straight face himself once your laughter has you falling practically into his lap. You’re laughing so hard your sides are beginning to hurt.

“It wasn’t that funny,” he pouts once you’ve calmed yourself enough that he can make himself heard.

“I’m sor— I’m sorry!” you wheeze out, still leaning heavily on him and clutching your aching sides.

“It was definitely that funny,” Bull grins.

“Well, I’ve had more than enough of your fabled southern hospitality for one evening,” he says, dumping you nearly onto the ground as he storms off to your tent. Every one of your friends knows him well enough by this point to see it for the melodrama it is, however. He’s probably just hoping to get you alone. On that count he will be unfortunately disappointed.

“I’ll be back shortly,” you tell the others as casually as you can manage the moment Dorian’s out of earshot.

You slip off with minimal objections, likely because most think you’re off to relieve yourself. Cassandra is the only one who knows what you’re really at, and you only informed her because you thought it was preferable to the possibility of your friends sending out a search party for you at an inopportune moment.

You give Cassandra a brief nod, grab the bag you stashed away earlier, and dash off into the night.

It takes you a bit longer than you anticipated to complete your preparations. By the time you return to camp, the campfire’s gone from a cheerful roar to a warm beacon in frigid night air of the Frostbacks.

Cassandra is keeping watch, saving you the trouble of sneaking back to your tent.

“Thank you,” you whisper, briefly placing a hand on her shoulder as you pass by.

“I am glad you think he’s worth it,” she replies and you’re thankful not for the first time to have such good friends.

Dorian either wakes or pretends to wake as you enter the tent.

“And just where have you been?” he complains, brushing a few stray snowflakes from your hair.

“Get dressed and come see for yourself.”

“You’re joking.”

“Fine. Don’t dress. You’d better come quickly though. Cassandra’s only going to keep watch for so long, and I’d rather not have anyone come looking for us when we don’t want to be found.”

“I admit, you’ve piqued my interest,” he says, shrugging into his leathers. “May I ask what the big surprise is?”

“That’d rather be spoiling it, don’t you think?”

“Figures,” he sighs. “Help me with these, would you? This tent was obviously not designed with humans in mind.”

You fight to restrain yourself as your hands move across his chest, securing belts, buckles, and buttons. Not yet, you keep reminding yourself. Not yet. You allow yourself a few lingering touches but nothing more.

“Damn your fashionable attire,” you swear once your patience runs out. “We’re just going to be tearing the damn things back off. Leave the rest and let’s go!”

“I love it when you’re eager,” he says in a tone that is far from helpful at this juncture.

You kick him out of the tent before either of you are tempted to tear his fashionably irritating clothes off right then and there.

“Kaffas!” he swears as the cold hits his skin.

“Ssh!” you warn him. “Do you want to let the entire camp know what we’re after?”

“Definitely not.”

Cassandra rolls her eyes as the two of you pass back by, but there’s a hint of a smile behind the exasperation. You love her dearly.

“I hope wherever we’re headed is warm, at least,” Dorian complains the moment the novelty of sneaking off in the night has worn off, which is surprisingly fast.

“You’d be warmer if you’d move faster,” you urge him on with a tugging hand. “Come on, we’re nearly there.”

You reach your destination at last. Steam rises from the clear, nearly still surface of the spring. The air grows warmer and more humid with each step you take.

“Come over here,” you say, pulling him towards the brazier you set up earlier.

The air goes from “bearable” to “warm summer’s day” once you’re within the brazier’s magical radius.

“It took a bit of creative tinkering to get it to burn this hot,” you explain. “I would have been sooner if not for that.”

“How did you find this?” he breathes, clearly appreciating both the warmth and the view.

“I didn’t find it so much as conveniently dragged you along when I knew we would pass nearby,” you explain. “My clan passed through these parts a few years back.”

He strips off a glove to test the water’s temperature.

“Is the brazier managing all of this?” he asks.

“What? Of course not. It’s a natural hot spring. The brazier’s just so you don’t have to undress in the cold,” you tell him. “I thought it might be the only way I’d get you out of your clothes in this weather.”

“An excellent deduction on your part.”

You strip while he’s still admiring the view. He doesn’t seem to notice until you slip into the water. You sit yourself down on one of the pool’s smooth, flat rocks and wait. You can’t keep a grin from your face, and he catches on almost immediately.

“You’re expecting a show, I take it?”

“I did work very hard putting this all together.”

“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint but sensual stripping is one of the few skills I don’t possess,” he informs you before pulling his clothes off in a way that is decidedly sensual, if not very drawn out. Even with the brazier, he’s eager to get in the water. “Maker’s breath… I’d nearly forgotten what it’s like not to be constantly chilled to the bone.”

“It gets even better.”

“Does it? I can hardly see how,” he says before ducking his head briefly under the water’s surface. “It’s like a beautiful little piece of home right in the middle of this barren wasteland. A veritable oasis in the heart of the savage south.”

“Come here,” you order, holding out your hand to guide him over beside you. “Now lean back.”

“Hm? What am I looking at?”

“My excellent timing. It’s nearly a full moon and there’s not a cloud in the sky.”

“Ah, it is quite the beautiful night,” he feigns appreciation for as long as he can manage. “You’ll forgive me if I take more pleasure in the creature comforts the evening provides.”

“You have absolutely not appreciation for nature.”

“I’m sorry if I find it difficult to love nature as much as a Dalish elf,” he teases, kissing you right on the center motif of your Vassalin.

“Are there a lot of hot springs in Tevinter?” you ask.

“Hardly. But the experience is not unlike one of our bathhouses. Great halls filled with massive carved tubs kept warm all hours of the day thanks to magic, not some fluke of nature. The only difference is the absence of privacy. I went several times to the exclusive pools reserved for the Altus and even once to those only for magisters and their guests, but I can say that I’ve never found myself in such pleasurable company there. Or in possession of such freedom.”

He wraps his arms around you, his kisses more than grateful. His wet fingers catch in your hair and you’re not sure you can stand a part of you being dry when he’s so thoroughly wet. You pull back just enough to duck your head down slicking your hair back. When he kisses you again, his hands tangle greedily in your dripping locks while yours find their way down to his hips.

He crawls across your lap, his bare chest out of the water and on display to you and all of nature as he pulls himself closer to you. You find your back against the rocky edge of the pool as he pushes down against you, mouth demanding as always against yours. His cock lines up with yours, hot even compared to the warmth of the spring, and he thrusts gently, more in search of a comfortable position than pleasure. It doesn’t take long, however, for the insistent way your hands claim every part of him and the cleverness of his tongue to turn those relaxed movements into something more driven and immediate.

“Maker’s breath!” he says with some trouble finding his own. “This… Maker, _this_ is all I’ve ever wanted from the world. Why do we even bother with the rest of it?”

“Because someone needs to stop would-be gods from taking over the world?” you remind him, though you suspect he wasn’t anticipating a serious answer. Or any answer at all. You’re not entirely sure he meant to say that aloud.

“Let it burn. I don’t need anything more than what I have right here.”

He presses closer as if to drive the point home by force.

“Although,” he says, still the slightest bit breathless. “It does seem a shame to soil such an excellent creation of nature, even for this.”

“And now you see the secondary purpose of the brazier,” you inform him. “And its precise location.”

“I see you put a great deal of thought into this evening.”

“Why do you think I’ve been so distracted the past couple of days?”

You guide him back to the far edge of the pool and up onto the smooth nearly flat stone kept warm between the brazier and the heat of the spring.

“If it’s too cool, just feed a little fire into the brazier. It should take easily enough.”

He stretches his back obscenely across the stone as his hands reach back over his head to grasp the brazier’s legs.

“Like this?” he says, voice pitched in a way that sends bolts down your spine as magic sparks from his outstretched fingertips towards the brazier’s belly.

You answer him with the light touch of teeth along the inside of his thigh. He gasps your name breathlessly as he arches off the stone. Once again you’re struck with the thought that no other man in all of Thedas could ever be so purely sensual in his every movement. The leg you’re not administering marking kisses to wraps around your waist, his heel dragging up the small of your back.

“Please tell me we’re nearing an end to the foreplay. Not that I’m not enjoying myself immensely, but I think I might go mad if you force me to wait for you any longer.”

You laugh against his skin and bite him one last time, just for the joy of seeing his expression again.

“Reach into the bag,” you say, pointing towards where you mean, “and hand me the vial.”

He obediently follows your directions… to a point. Instead of handing you the vial, he drips the contents liberally on his hands before leaning forward to grasp you.

“Kiss me,” he demands while you’re still struggling for control.

You pull him down into your mouth, your kisses gasping and entirely beholden to his touch. It lasts only a moment. One hand leaves you, though to wear you can only guess. A moment later it’s back, pulling your hips forward while his other hand guides your cock inside him.

He drops back on the stone once he’s gotten your head in, leaving you to do the rest of the work while he swears beautifully in Tevene until he simply can’t manage words any longer. You drop down onto his chest when you can press in no further, lips scraping his chest at the peaks between your panting breaths and his.

“Grab hold of the brazier again,” you order, still not certain you can move without bringing a quick and sloppy end to the evening.

He complies with an impish grin, leaving his torso stretched taunt, an open canvas for your touches. Your fingers tease at his nipples and trace lines down his arms while your lips and tongue deliver kisses over every available inch of him. You restrain yourself from thrusting and merely enjoy the view of him until you trust yourself to move again.

“More,” he demands the moment you do start moving.

You happily oblige, grabbing hold of his thighs and positioning him where you want as your feet find better purchase on the stone. Neither of you are in the mood for something slow and drawn out. Once you find a good position, you take to thrusting in deep, steady strokes. Dorian moans and does what he can to meet you, but his hands never leave the brazier. He goes so far as to order you to take him in hand when he draws close while his knuckles shine white in the firelight.

Dorian screams up at the stars as he comes and you have only a moment to worry who or what’s attention that caught before you’re coming nearly as loud.

You pull him back into the water the moment you stop seeing white. The two of you fumble your way blindly back over to the submerged stone you were seated on earlier, unwilling to let go of one another for long enough to even look around you.

You wind up with his arm around your shoulder and your head resting against him. You sit in silence for a long while, letting your hearts slow together and simply enjoying this rare moment you have completely alone.

“Before I forget,” Dorian finally breaks the silence. “This was well, well worth the trek into the cold.”

“But the real question is whether or not it’s worth a trip to the Frostbacks,” you tease.

“Ha! You should have asked me that while I was still out of my mind with pleasure. You might have stood a chance at tricking me into liking this blighted land then.”

“Damn. I’ve missed my opportunity then?”

“Such a shame. And after all that work you put in, too.”

You pull his face over to yours and kiss him again. The fire is gone but the warmth never fades.

“Hey! I found them!” a voice shouts, completely ruining the atmosphere.

“Was that Sera?” you ask rather pointlessly as she breaks through the tree line the moment you’ve bothered to ask.

“The real question is not who was speaking but who she was speaking to,” Dorian sighs.

His question is answered almost as quickly as yours when the Iron Bull comes thundering after Sera.

“I hope we’re not interrupting anything!” he calls out in a way that rather suggests that’s exactly what he hopes he’s doing.

“Well you are, so go away!” Dorian snaps, moving towards the edge of the pool as if he plans to black their entrance. You trail along behind him, not out of any hopes of baring the two interlopers but to hopefully hide both the scar on your abdomen and your manhood from their sight.

“You didn’t think you could keep something this good to yourselves, did you?” Sera demands. “Greedies.”

“We’re naked,” Dorian switches tactics.

“Doesn’t bother me none,” she shrugs.

“Nor me,” Bull says with a feral grin that leaves you embarrassed and just the tiniest bit jealous. Bull’s never been shy about letting others know which men or women have caught his eye. Dorian has featured in the lineup since the moment they first engaged in witty after-battle banter.

“What are you doing?” you ask dumbly as they both start to strip.

“What’s it look like, silly?” Sera rolls her eyes. “Didn’t expect us to get in with our clothes on, did you?”

“We didn’t expect you to get in at all!” Dorian complains. “You were not invited. You have no business being here in the first place.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Bull says as he kicks off his trousers. “What kind of bodyguard would I be if I didn’t come running when I heard the boss yelling?”

You think you might die here and now, though whether due more to the sight of Bull’s member or the thought that the entire bloody encampment heard you, you can’t rightly say.

“The lack of decorum I can almost understand when it comes to this hulking beast, but what’s you’re excuse?” Dorian turns to Sera, rather pointedly not looking at Bull’s nakedness. “A lady certainly wouldn’t undress in front of all these gentlemen, would she?”

“Pft. Good thing I ain’t no lady then,” Sera says, doffing her shirt. “You three can look all you want, so long as you don’t do any touching.”

“I’ll try to restrain myself,” Dorian replies sarcastically, though he’s interrupted half way through as a naked Sera jumps into the spring beside you.

“Andraste’s tits!” she exclaims as she pops back up like a cork. “Excellent! Really ruddy excellent!”

“Oh, that’s _good_ ,” Bull groans as he slowly lowers himself into the water. You swear the level of the pool rises by at least four fingers by the time he’s all the way in.

“Did you hear that?” Dorian asks you. “That was the sound of all the romance in the world dying.”

“Do you think if we left now they’d think they’d driven us off?” you whisper back.

“Undoubtedly. We’ve no choice but to suffer through it for the sake of our pride.”

“Quick,” you start pulling him. “Before one of them steals our seat.”

You probably needn’t have worried, you soon discover. Sera takes to the water like a fish complete with all the splashing that entails. Bull, on the other hand, seems completely unwilling to move once he’s submerged himself as deep in the water as he possibly can.

“I can’t believe you two ninnies were planning on keeping this to yourselves!” Sera complains again once she’s settled down a little.

“Yes, Maker forbid we allow ourselves one moment away from the rabble.”

“Psh, if you wanted some lovey-dovey time you should have told us about the hot spring and then snuck off while we were all distracted.”

“If that’s such an excellent plan, why are you two the only ones who bothered to chase after us? I’m assuming Cassandra didn’t just tell the two of you.”

“She kind of did though, yeah? Well, Viv too, but she’s too fancy to go bathing in the moonlight, so we left her on watch,” Sera informs you. “’Sides, Cassy wouldn’t have told us anything if fancy-pants over there could have kept it quiet.”

“I was hardly loud enough to wake the entire camp,” Dorian says, and you’re glad at least one of you seems to believe that.

“It’s not your mouth that’s the problem, it’s your timing,” Bull says, his one good eye still closed. “Sera and I were already awake. It was pure coincidence.”

“Pure lucky coincidence!” Sera corrects him. “Well, mostly lucky. I would have preferred getting here before the two of you stank the place up with your nasty man smells. Take what you can get, though.”

“Lucky us. A hot spring that smells of Vint spunk.”

“You’re his boss, aren’t you? Order him to leave,” Dorian begs you, but you’re too mortified to do anything but blush mutely.

“You’re all terrible and I hate you,” Dorian says when you refuse to comply.

“For future reference, it’s best to bribe your men if you want some alone time,” Bull informs you. “Trust me, I know. Bunch I’ve got’s absolutely shameless. You think we’re bad, at least we waited a good fifteen minutes before chasing off after you.”

“Ten at least,” Sera chimes in.

“Bribes, hm? See, I was thinking something more along the lines of… pointed persuasion for our future approach. And by pointed I mean the pointed claws of a ghostly red Templar poking through the walls of your tent at night of you dare interrupt us,” Dorian says with a merciless grin.

Sera visibly pales even in the already pale moonlight.

“He wouldn’t,” you assure her.

“I see the boss keeps you on a short leash,” Bull taunts Dorian. “I bet you like it.”

Dorian merely groans dramatically in response.

“However, he is free to haunt you with whatever creepy crawly he can dredge up from the Fade,” you say, coming to Dorian’s defense.

“That’s just mean,” Bull pouts. “What’s wrong with bribery? It’s so much easier for everyone involved.”

“I’d give up every part of my birthright for some real privacy,” Dorian sighs wistfully. “One whole week on the western beaches, complete with servants who could cook a decent meal and know how to make themselves scarce when they weren’t wanted. Crisp linen sheets…”

“Thought you didn’t have any birthright no more? Thought that was the whole point of you runnin’ off.”

“It’s complicated.”

“Always is with you noble types,” she scoffs. “Should be simple. Either you’ve got something or you don’t. How can somebody maybe kind of take something from you? If you can’t tell whether you’ve got something or not, it’s ‘cause it weren’t never real in the first place. That, or maybe you’ve forgotten what it really is.”

“Mm,” Dorian frowns, eyes still closed. “Perhaps I have at that.”

“I don’t get it, is all I’m saying. You’d all be better off if you’d just stop making things so bloody complicated all the time.”

“If only we were all blessed with your unique visions of the world,” he says, though not mockingly. “Maybe then things could be simpler. Alas, you are a rare flower.”

“Ha! Am not. But that’s why the Jenny’s exist, yeah? Help fancy noble types see, even if they don’t want to.”

“I think we can agree that even if Dorian is a noble, he’s the good kind of noble,” you break in.

“If we’re looking past the creepy dead people magics?”

“Ignoring the magic,” you agree, elbowing Dorian when he looks ready to protest.

“And the mustache?”

“Venhedis! Not this again! I’ll have you know I consider myself excellently dressed given the circumstances, by which I mean given I’m two hundred leagues from the nearest tailor of any repute. I will not sit here and be criticized by someone who sees nothing wrong with wearing _those_ pants,” he fumes. “And as to the quality of my personal grooming, you obviously don’t understand its appeal because you’re exclusively attracted to women.”

“What?” Sera laughs. “The one’s got nothing to do with the other. That mustache is just silly. Come on, you two. Back me up on this.”

“Don’t look at me,” you say. “I’m rather fond of the way Dorian looks.”

“Oh, right. Don’t know why I bothered asking you. You’re obviously biased. You’ll back me up though, won’t you Bull?”

“Well, it’s definitely… _fancy_ ,” he says as if it’s a dirty word. “But…”

“But?” Sera frowns.

“I’m not sure removing it would be much of an improvement in his case. No matter how talented the blacksmith, you can never make a decent blade out of gold.”

“What in the blighted after is that supposed to mean?”

“Sera, you like muscles. Big, bulging muscles, preferably on women.”

“Yeah? So?”

“Dorian’s _pretty_. Look at him. The clothes and the fiddly little mustache are just icing on the cake. He’s just cursed to be beautiful.”

“And what a burden it is to bear,” Dorian says, sounding quite pleased with himself.

“Ugh, what’s the point in asking you two, anyway? You’re lying with him and you would if you got the chance,” she pouts.

“I hate to be the one to have to inform you of this, but you’d be hard pressed to find anyone who’s met me and wouldn’t be interested in sleeping with me at least once. I’d even be willing to bet that Vivienne, for all that she despises everything I stand for, wishes her pride would allow her to court me. You should count yourself lucky that you’re immune to my charms. It saves you from a life of futile pining.”

“You’re full of it, you know that?” Sera laughs. “I suppose you’re OK though. For a pretty noble type.”

“I am pleased to have your approval,” he says, this time definitely mocking. “But I think it’s time for the two of us to retire.”

Dorian pulls you along behind him as he heads over towards the brazier and your abandoned clothing without bothering to ask if you’re ready to leave. You’re well used to that by this point. Just one of the many joys of dating a pretty noble, you suppose. He knows what he wants and rarely settles for anything less. You’d probably put up more of a fuss if trailing obediently behind him wasn’t its own reward.

“Keep your eyes to yourself, you beast,” Dorian orders, shoving Bull’s head aside by one of his massive horns. You can’t help but to wonder whose modesty he’s protecting, his own or yours.

“You’re not that pretty,” Bull scoffs, but obediently keeps his head turned as you and Dorian pull yourselves out of the spring.

“Please tell me those were towels I felt in that bag earlier,” Dorian says, reaching for the bag you’d packed. “I do not relish the through of wearing damp clothes back to camp.”

“I thought it was in my best interest to avoid having you dripping wet _and_ in the Frostbacks.”

“Wise decision, boss.”

Dorian sparks the brazier back up. You both dry yourselves off as best you can and leave the rest of the work to the brazier’s heat.

“Maker’s arse, that looks like it hurt,” Sera frowns. “Who or what did that?”

Dirthara ar, you’d actually forgotten! Bull’s eyes are on you as well now. You pull your towel in front of the scar, for what little good that does you at this point.

“It’s…”

You debate how much of the truth you should tell them. Sera is bound to react terribly to the fact that you were involved with blood magic, even if you didn’t cast it yourself. You’re not sure her knowledge of the arcane is even up to making the distinction. And there’s absolutely no telling how she’ll react to the rest, given what a wild card she is. You’ve been pleasantly surprised by several people at this point, but the few poor reactions have been extremely poor.

Iron Bull, on the other hand, would probably take it all well enough. You can’t help but to wonder how deep his Qunari heritage runs on the subject of magic, however. After all, his people do sew the mouths of their mages shut. Sera’s departure from the Inquisition you could bare well enough, but you’re not sure you could stand Bull’s professional courtesy if things go sour.

“It’s none of your business,” Dorian tells them curtly.

“What, is it some kind of special lover’s secret?” Sera teases.

“As a matter of fact, it is.”

“Aw, that’s no fair! I’ve got to know now!”

“Too bad! I’m the only one who gets that privilege.”

While Dorian’s got Sera distracted with their petty bickering, you spare a glance at Bull. He shrugs his shoulders with a small smile. You think he’s managed to guess what he didn’t hear from Krem. You immediately relax.

“That’s it. We’re leaving.”

Dorian hands you your clothes and you eagerly get dressed.

“I wouldn’t spend too much longer lazing about,” Dorian tells them as his fingers deftly work the little buttons and hidden clasps on his outfit. “That brazier runs on magic, not fire. You’ll not be capable of relighting it once it goes out.”

You leave the two of them swearing and scrambling out of the water as you head back to camp.

“Thank you,” you whisper, leaning in close enough to knock your shoulders gently together as you take his hand.

“You’re allowed to keep some things to yourself, you know,” he reminds you. “You don’t owe them everything. In fact, I’d much prefer it if there were parts of you which were mine and mine alone.”

“I think Bull knows. Or he knows enough to guess.”

“Leave the rest of them guessing. You give them enough as it is.”

“I don’t want to lie to them,” you try and explain.

“And what are you lying about exactly, hm?” he challenges you. “There is a difference between lying and demanding some ounce of personal privacy. Disclosure can be a form of self-defense, yes. Maker knows I’ve worn certain truths like armor. But there is something to be said for the usefulness of subtlety.”

“You’re suggesting a middle ground.”

“What I’m suggesting that it’s none of their bloody business what it took to get you here,” he says. “I’m suggesting that the ignorant rabble you’ve surrounded yourself with isn’t qualified to judge you. Anyone who has any business knowing already knows. Why not just leave it at that and say you’ve done your part?”

“Because I’m the one who has to judge them when the time comes. I owe them a certain measure of transparency,” you say, thinking of that nasty business with “Thom Rainier.”

“A certain measure, yes, but not absolute transparency,” he argues. “You know, for someone who regularly complains about being mistaken for divinity, you are rather keen on holding yourself to their standards. Even Divines are allowed their secrets.”

“This is a rather big secret to keep,” you counter. “What do you think Sera would do if she found out? Do you think we’d still be giggling around the campfire? If she knew, it would change everything for her. She finds it hard enough to follow a mage, much less a blood mage.”

“And I once again reiterate that the ignorant have no business judging you. This is exactly what I mean. If anything, you’re protecting her, not yourself. You’re no more a blood mage than I’m a magister.”

“You don’t think they have a right to know something that could potentially change the way they think of me?”

“If you thought that why haven’t you told them yourself, hm?”

Because you’re a bloody coward. You pull a few steps ahead of him, ready to be done with the conversation. He, however, is clearly not. He pulls you back, actually stopping you both dead in the snow.

“You know they have no business knowing. You’re just too much of a goody two-shoes to let yourself believe that without feeling guilty,” he says. “You told me because you thought I deserved to know. In fact, I recall you being rather insistent about it. Leliana certainly knows. I’m assuming Cullen and Josaphine know as well?”

“Cassandra too. I told Krem myself, but my advisors only know because Leliana found out herself,” you correct him.

“So all of the people on whom your throne depends, in essence. If they know and still judge you fit to rule, what could possibly make you think Sera has any right or need to comment on the matter?”

You sigh, unsure how to explain the unease you feel without getting called a goody two-shoes again.

“Think of it as a matter of trust. Or privilege if that sits better with you. You trusted me with your past because our relationship demanded that level of intimacy,” he says, lifting your intertwined fingers nearly to his lips as if you needed a physical reminder, “just as your relationship with your advisors demanded that knowledge by right of power and station. But Sera?”

He shakes his head.

“Friendship doesn’t demand such great concessions. And when it does you can tell them. You’ll want to. When you’re ready,” he emphasizes that final point.

You concede the point.

“There now, that wasn’t so hard, was it? You should just accept that I’m always right. It would save you so much time and effort. Now come on, I’m done standing out in the snow and listening to your nonsense.”

Demanding as always. You smile and let him pull you along by your still intertwined hand. The world might be a better place, you think, if Dorian could always be right. But as things stand, you suppose you’ll have to stand for simply proving him right as often as possible.


End file.
